Friday nights in Beacon Hills belonged to this road. It wasn't official. It wasn't legal. It was simply known as the most dangerous stretch of asphalt in the county—blind corners, steep drops, endless S-turns, razor-sharp apexes, and cliffs with no guardrails. One mistake meant your car disappeared into the darkness below.

That was exactly why people came.

More than a hundred spectators lined the roadside, their headlights illuminating the mountain like a tunnel of white light. Engines roared while people placed bets, recorded videos, and argued over who would win. There was only one race everyone cared about.

The two cars rolled to the starting line. Alejandro sat behind the wheel, revving the engine with a confident grin. You sat in your black race-built car, one hand resting on the steering wheel, your expression calm beneath the glow of the dashboard.

Outside, the crowd chanted your names.

Then—

The light dropped.

Both cars exploded forward. Tires screamed against the pavement as the engines echoed through the valley. Alejandro grabbed the inside line into the first corner. You stayed just behind him.

Second corner. Third. Fourth. The road twisted like a snake.

The first series of S-turns came into view. Alejandro braked hard. You didn’t. Instead, you flicked the wheel left… then right… then left again, clipping each apex so closely your tires skimmed the painted edge.

Nobody passed there. Nobody.